


Light In The Halls

by actuallyfeanor



Series: Fëanorian Short-Stories [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Halls of Mandos, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 06:42:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17823812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Fëanor is trapped in the Halls of Mandos, endlessly pacing the lightless halls. A short drabble exploring his character





	Light In The Halls

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to write something from Fëanor’s perspective. Of all Tolkien’s characters, he is the one whose head I have always struggled to get inside when writing. It’s just difficult to come up with a way to explain how he justifies his actions to himself, or how he copes in the aftermath.
> 
> This was originally posted to [my Tumblr account](https://actuallyfeanor.tumblr.com/)

Grey and dark seemed the Halls of Mandos. To some they were a place of comfort, of rest from a lifetime of weary toil and hopeless wars, but not to Fëanor as he strode the vaulted aisles of the great chamber. The tapestries on the walls gave him no comfort, no rest, with their tales of death and ruin, of battles lost and shadows lengthening. A thin shaft of light from a high window pierced the gloom and lit up a flash of coppery red on the wall ahead. As Fëanor came closer, he found himself staring at his two eldest sons, locked in combat back to back, surrounded by orcs and other foul creatures of the Enemy. His fingers traced the outline of Maedhros’ hair, marvelling at the lifelike sheen of the embroidery thread, recalling all those times had he stroked his son’s hair, softly singing him to sleep as a child.

The delicate needlework also stirred something else within him, a long-buried memory of finding a chest filled with his mother’s handiwork. How he had admired the skill that had gone into the creation of such exquisite designs. There were intertwining flower stems, colourful birds, leaves in hues of soft green. Seeing Miriel’s work had filled him with a desire to create, to hold on to this connection with his mother and honour her memory by using what skill of hers that lived on in him, to make things of great beauty.

But they were lost. His greatest, most wondrous works were lost to him, and he could no longer reach their beauty nor feel them thrumming with light and power. Fëanor screamed, in sorrow and rage and agony, as old wounds were ripped open anew. He saw Finwë, on the floor in a pool of blood, and he cried out for the father he had failed. He saw his sons fighting a war they could not hope to win, and he grieved for the oath that bound them and his part in their downfall. He saw Nerdanel, fiercely concentrated on her work, locking her thoughts and feelings away where he could not reach them, and he resented the wall they had built between them; the wall his actions had built between them. Fëanor screamed, until he had no will left to scream, and then he waited in the silence.

Time passed. Time flows differently in the Halls, never quite touching those who dwell there. Yet time passed.

Others came to the Halls. He did not speak to them. He held his grief close, as they held theirs. He was dimly aware that his sons were also there - Celegorm, Caranthir and Curufin - more blood on his hands. Curufin came to see him, and he wished he could have told his son "you did well", but the horror of what they both had done lay heavy between them, and they sat in silence, all the unsaid words crowding the room. He finally broke the silence, asked for news of his grandson.

“Celebrimbor got away. I would have called it disloyalty, had I not now percieved that he might well have been the wisest of us.” Curufin’s wry smile looked almost pained.

“I am glad to hear.”

The news gave him hope, such as he had not felt before in all his time in the Halls. It was a faint hope, that one of his family might escape the Doom and the wrath of the Valar, that he might live untouched by the darkness, but it was enough to make the gloom of the Halls seem less oppressive for a while.

Celegorm and Caranthir did not wish to see him. He did not blame them. He was relieved that he would not have to face their accusing eyes, yet he wondered if he had lost them for good. Amrod and Amras kept their distance too when they arrived, finding comfort only in each other’s company.

Time passed.

Then Maedhros was there; a broken, wretched, shivering figure, and this time, at least, Fëanor knew what to do. He held his eldest son close, stroking his copper hair, telling him again and again how proud he was of him and how well he had done. Little by little the shivering stopped and some life returned to Maedhros’ empty eyes.

The arrival of Maedhros brought with it changes. His slow healing process proved to be just what was needed to bridge the gap between Fëanor and his sons. Tales and songs filled the Halls, as they all shared stories of what had befallen them in life, and as time flowed through the empty grey chambers, they became less dark and tomb-like.

They waited for Maglor to arrive, but he never did. No news of him came from those poor souls newly arrived in the Halls either. Fëanor feared that he had lost him, just as he had lost Nerdanel. Or worse, a small voice whispered, that Maglor had never truly belonged to him. With his calm demeanor, soft words and quietly meticulous devotion to music, Maglor was Nerdanel's son through and through. And yet he had chosen exile, had chosen rebellion and uncertainty over the rational course of action. Perhaps they were more similar than he had thought. In the dark hours Fëanor prayed for Eru above to watch over his son.

There came a time when regrets and sorrow had faded from a raw, open wound to a dull ache, when rage and madness were just faint memories, and when Fëanor finally mustered the courage to see his father. They met on a high balcony, overlooking the wide sea, lit by the last rays of the setting sun. Finwë, tall and proud in life, was no less kingly in death, his raven hair stirring slightly in the breeze as he beheld the golden sunlight sparkling on the waves. Yet his eyes were kind as he looked upon his eldest son. Fëanor had fallen to his knees, head bowed in shame as he in that instant recalled all his wrongdoings.

“Father, forgive me,” he began, but Finwë went down on one knee before his son and embraced him without a word. Long they held on to each other, as sailors might cling to pieces of driftwood to keep from drowning when their ship has sunk. And when the first stars of Varda appeared in the sky, they rose, and Fëanor spoke. “Father, I failed you. I failed everyone.” But Finwë answered. “You did not fail me. Do not blame yourself for the deeds of the Enemy.” As he spoke, Eärendil rose in the evening sky, the Silmaril blazing across the firmament. And Finwë turned to his son. “Look yonder, and behold the light you have given this world.”


End file.
